


The Dance

by SDJ2



Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: 1950s, 1960s, Anger, Breaking Up & Making Up, Exes to lovers (kind of), First Love, Hopeful Ending, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Making Up, Musicians, New York City, Post-Break Up, RPF, They're so...., Tom & Jerry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:34:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29425341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SDJ2/pseuds/SDJ2
Summary: Art stood rooted to the spot, his mouth ajar, staring. And then, in typical Art fashion, he brought his hand to the back of his neck and scratched in his hair. It meant that Art was considering something. It meant that he wasn’t about to downright refuse, even if he was rather flustered about it. And so, Paul’s heartbeat quickened, a fluttering feeling of anticipation tugging on the inside of his chest. Art would actually say yes.“What?No.”
Relationships: Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	The Dance

**Author's Note:**

> I am reading Carlin's biography on Paul Simon at the moment. In it, he mentions that Paul and Art played a junior high school dance in New York where Louis, Paul's father, taught. In 1962. That's still in the break-up years, according to how the story usually goes. So my mind concocted this. 
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day to everyone! This story is not really Valentine's Day-themed, but I've been told there’s something romantic in it, and I couldn't not post something on this day. Hope you enjoy!

_Manhattan, NY, October 1962_

The room smelled as if polished shoes, a bouquet of roses and teenage hormones had been thrown together in a large cauldron and stirred to the boiling point, even with everyone finally cleared out and on their way home. The sound system was still playing music, but Paul had been asked to shut it down when he left.

Paul smiled to himself, remembering his own prom four years prior. Excitement hadn't been any different then, when his clothes had been washed and pressed by his mother, his hair had been slicked back with copious amounts of gel and he’d been skittishly holding the hand of the girl he had worked up the nerve to ask to the dance. Which, admittedly, had been a last-minute thing, and it had been an even bigger surprise to find that the girl hadn’t been asked for senior prom yet and had replied affirmatively to his rushed question. _But there was another hand he had wished to be holding instead._

Paul shook his head lightly and blinked a few times. It was no use thinking about that now. Thinking about it _still._ That was years ago, and he’d already moved on, right?

"I'm going home to your mother," came from a bit further away. "She's probably already worried. Need a ride home?"

Paul looked up to see his father standing in the doorway of the hall, scarf around his neck and hat in his hand, holding a briefcase in the other hand, and an inquisitive look on his face.

“I’ll uh...I’ll just stay behind for a few more minutes. Maybe. Talk a bit. Catch up.” Paul didn’t specify with whom, but he didn’t need to. His father nodded in understanding. 

“Oh, right.”

“I’ll make sure to catch the last train. Don’t wait up for me,” Paul added. 

Lifting his hand in a wave goodbye, Louis turned around and disappeared through the doorway. Paul heard him mumble something to someone and not even half a minute later, a head of blonde curls appeared, the blue eyes underneath huddled together by a small frown. 

“Aren’t you going home with him?” Art asked, pointing his thumb behind him. He moved closer in the room, stepping on a paper cup that was still on the ground. Art bent down and picked it up between his thumb and index finger, crinkling his nose in disgust when he noticed how sticky it was. He walked back to the nearest bin against the wall to get rid of it. 

“The janitor will probably have to do quite a bit of cleaning this weekend,” Paul remarked uselessly. 

There was a tickle in his throat. He was irrationally nervous, and didn’t like the feeling at all. Art was only his childhood friend, with whom he had shared so many things. Paul had grown up to be who he was with Art by his side. Sometimes he wondered if he was who he was _because_ of Art, whether Art’s presence and his friendship and their emotional attachment to one another in their teens, regardless of how it ended, hadn’t even been vital to shaping and molding his adult identity somehow. To be _this_ uneasy around Art was, even after a couple of years, still a foreign feeling and it made him feel rather ill at ease. 

“Hmmm,” Art hummed quite unhelpfully. 

Paul cleared his throat a couple of times. “I thought maybe we could talk a bit more. I mean, we haven’t really caught up during rehearsals, right, and I...I...How have you been?” he finished rather ineptly, unable to voice what he really wanted to say, for fear that Art might not be ready to hear it. And, if he was being honest, Paul wasn’t sure if he would be able to even say these things, the awkwardness of the past four years creating invisible yet sturdy barriers between them that were impossibly tricky to break down. 

Art wasn’t stupid. Paul noticed how Art saw right through Paul’s ham-fisted attempt at breaking the ice, at finding the smallest crack in Art’s hardened heart for him to squeeze through. To locate an opening, _anything_ that would dispel this horrible detachment from each other they found themselves in. 

But Art wasn’t ready, nor was he willing to allow Paul to invade his life again in a way that was not strictly professional, and Paul’s shoulders sagged and his stomach dropped when he saw those flickers of reluctance in Art’s face, and realized the futility of cherishing hope of anything more than the polite reunions they’d had over the past few years. 

At least their singing together hadn’t suffered too much. When Paul’s father had suggested that Paul played the 8th grade dance at the high school where he taught, he hadn’t had too much trouble convincing Art of joining him in resurrecting their old Tom & Jerry personas. Art had even been very accepting of learning and harmonizing to a few of Paul’s solo Jerry Landis songs, which had been rather surprising, considering the cause of the loss of their friendship in the first place. 

The Art that was looking at him now, eyes dark and shrouded in an insurmountable heap of mistrust and pessimism that seemed, in fact, more typical for Paul’s character, was making Paul feel like he was sinking in a pit of quicksand, no helping hand nearby to pull him to safety. 

Their relationship was like a spider web. It had been rather sturdy, meticulously crafted, able to withstand a bit of pushing and prodding by minor bugs. But then something had happened, like a large, too large, insect had flown into the web, destroying the thin, silvery threads that kept the whole thing together, fluttering around until even the main foundations of the web were gone. Their web had seemed impossible to rebuild from scratch after that. That’s what Art had said after the Incident, wasn’t it? _I can never fully trust you again._

Paul winced at the memory, at the way he’d been entirely dismissive of the pain he’d caused back then. Instead, he’d made some jokey remarks about how he thought Art had been entirely overreacting. He hadn’t understood until a bit later that when Art stomped away from him, yelling “it’s over”, it had indeed been over. Paul had definitely imagined a very different last summer with Art before they both went off to college. 

Not a day went by when Paul didn’t think about how things could have gone if he had been upfront in the first place or if he’d acknowledged he’d done Art wrong and apologised to Art for it. If he was being honest, he _still_ thought Art had been overreacting, but the fact that he had cut that record wasn’t what caused him the most regret. He should have told Art about it. In advance. 

But as it happened, neither of those scenarios had happened and Paul couldn’t believe how he had allowed both his pride and the passage of time to continue to ravage both of their broken hearts and shatter any remaining bond between them. There probably wasn’t a way back now. It was all too little, too late. 

Art must have felt that as well. And he wasn’t having it. 

“Paul…” he said, the tone a mix between warning and reprimanding, and if that was only in reaction to Paul asking him to catch up a little, he didn’t want to know how Art would respond if Paul would speak of something more substantial.

“Right.” 

Defeated, Paul turned around with the intent of picking up his guitar case and leaving, wishing he had taken his father up on his offer after all. 

“Paul,” Art said again, but the second time it sounded different, as if Art had realised that he was being deliberately and unwarrantedly difficult. There was, however, no apology following, but then again, Paul didn’t expect any. 

Paul turned back, just as a song came on on the system he was supposed to shut off. He scoffed inwardly. Typical, a tune that Carole had written, performed by artists that held the most meaning to him and Art, and one that was rather fitting for the way his heart bled and for the way hot tears were prickling behind his eyelids. Now all he needed to do was to step outside and hope it was pouring for the whole picture to fit. 

He raised his eyes and couldn’t help but notice the wounded shape Art seemed to be in as well; the song undoubtedly unleashing memories for him as well. 

The words came out of Paul’s mouth before he could think and unspeak them.

“Dance with me?” _God, what was he even doing?_

Art stood rooted to the spot, his mouth ajar, staring. And then, in typical Art fashion, he brought his hand to the back of his neck and scratched in his hair. Paul hadn’t hung out with Art in years but he would recognize that gesture from miles away. It meant that Art was considering something. It meant that he wasn’t about to downright refuse, even if he was rather flustered about it. And so, Paul’s heartbeat quickened, a fluttering feeling of anticipation tugging on the inside of his chest. Art would actually say yes. 

“What? _No_.” 

Remarkably, Paul actually felt elated. Undeterred by the two words that Art had spoken, he started moving in Art’s direction, his eyes not leaving Art’s face at all. He had come this far. It was just a matter of keeping his foot down now.

“Come on. No one is here.” He held out his hand. 

Art remained frozen in place, his eyes large, shifting rapidly as he tried stubbornly to hold Paul’s gaze as well. 

Paul’s eyebrow shot up as he extended his hand even further, the slight upturn of his mouth betraying the amusement he felt at Art’s squirmy demeanor. Paul knew Art was going to try to find excuses next, to stall, and he wasn’t going to let him. 

“Whether we’re alone or not isn’t the point,” Art explained. “We’re not _supposed_ to.” 

There were probably a lot of explanations for what lay behind Art’s words. _We’re not supposed to because I’m angry at you still. You broke my heart. I can’t be touching you or I’ll end up doing the opposite of hating you. We shouldn’t. I’m not ready. I don’t want to. I don’t love you anymore._

Paul didn’t doubt that all of these were true as well, and he would have flinched from the heavy weight of it all, if he hadn’t, inexplicably, immediately understood what Art was referring to this time. _We’re not supposed to because we’re two men. Men shouldn’t be dancing with each other._ Art was _still_ not downright rejecting the invitation. He wasn’t completely closing the door on allowing Paul to unfasten the thick chains of mistrust that had constricted Art’s feelings for him all this time, Paul hoped.

“I seem to remember we did a lot of things we weren’t supposed to, Artie.” 

There, he’d said it. It was probably the first time since _it_ happened that one of them acknowledged that it wasn’t only their friendship that died the most sudden death on that fateful spring day. It wasn’t only the sky that had turned dark on the evening of the next day, when Paul had gone over to Art’s house only to find that the door to Art’s bedroom remained irrevocably closed. _He doesn’t want to see you right now_ , Mrs Garfunkel had explained, an apologetic look on her face. Paul’s vision had blacked out as he was gripped by panic, but when he had managed to pull himself together again back at home, he found his heart clouded over as well, his mouth set in a grim line, when he too had decided that if Art wanted the silent treatment, he would damn well get it. They had ignored each other in school ever since, and not a hair on Paul’s head had thought about apologising, not unless Art would approach him first. Which obviously hadn’t happened, stubborn as they both were. It had taken almost a year before they had spoken again, high school graduation already long forgotten as they had both started new lives as college students. The Incident, however, had not been forgotten. Art hadn’t been able to. And it had always been there, hanging over their heads, following them around like a dark shadow, even when they made the best effort of trying to be civil again, of rekindling a small shred of what their friendship once was. 

Art grunted noncommittally, still not moving a muscle. He looked as if there was a mix of nervousness and a whole lot of suspicion going on inside his mind. _Why should I trust you?_ Still, Paul also thought he detected a trace of something else. Something he hoped was mild excitement. Paul wondered if Art still thought about him the way he did about Art.

The song changed, and another slow rhythm sounded over the speakers. Paul moved another step closer to Art, daring to brush the back of his fingers to Art’s sleeve. When Art didn’t pull away, Paul slid his hand to Art’s waist, tugging at Art’s back, pulling him closer. 

“It’s just you and me,” Paul whispered, his heartbeat rushing in his ears and the flow of blood almost palpable in his fingertips. 

And finally, finally Art relented, letting go of his inner struggle with a small sigh. Art grabbed Paul’s shoulder, albeit still a little reluctantly, while an unreadable but not entirely unkind expression appeared in his eyes, and Paul almost burst into tears. They probably hadn’t been this close in a long while, both physically and emotionally. 

And yet, something wasn’t right. Paul frowned, as he tried to rack his brain to figure out what it was. Their movements were stunted and stiff for a few beats, and it took until the first refrain of the song sounded to hit Paul that they were both taking on the leading role in the dance. 

In any other circumstance Paul would have steered his dance partner in the right direction. He wouldn’t have given up the lead. But this time was different. Now there was a very fine and very brittle line to tread; the smallest misstep would cause Art to bolt like a skittish cat. And so Paul quietly acquiesced and let himself be led, for once. Art noticed that something had changed, because this time the frown between his eyes deepened, as he was trying to work out why their steps suddenly didn’t falter anymore and why things went more smoothly. 

Paul diverted Art’s attention by curling his one arm more tightly around Art’s waist and the other hand lightly touching Art’s shoulder blade. Art still touched him back with what seemed like a certain averseness, unsure and somewhat antipathetic. 

_Small steps_ , Paul kept thinking, and not only with regards to the technique of the dance. He shouldn’t rush. It seemed like a miracle that Art was even here, and wasn’t putting up more of a fight, barring his stiff demeanor. 

Still, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut, and before he knew it, he looked up at Art, asking, “Remember our senior prom?”

One of Art’s eyebrows immediately shot up. 

“Yes?” It was intended as a question. One that had the very clear goal of asking Paul not to delve too deep into that particular year, which Paul understood. Yet he couldn’t help himself.

“I wanted this for us then.”

Art scoffed, a wry smile on his lips, and Paul felt the anger that was still residing within Art pulsating under his fingers, in the way Art’s muscles seemed to harden, and his eyes momentarily grew cold again. 

“Paul, come on, don’t. Even if…,” Art hesitated. “Never mind. In any case, we couldn’t have. That would have made a lot of eyes frown, if we had attempted it.” 

Paul knew that, yet he couldn’t keep a small smile from forming on his lips. “Instead I had to take whatshername to prom."

"Stacy."

As Art said her name Paul could recall the way her dark, straight hair had fallen on her shoulders. The way her lips were thin and she was short as he was. The way she had been outgoing and cheerful. The way she had looked and been the complete opposite of the boy he'd been in love with. Paul had taken her home after prom and he had known by the subtle looks and other signs she kept shooting at him that she had wanted him to kiss her, but he had taken his leave in a rush only to cry his eyes out back in the safety of his bedroom. In another universe, he would have been with Art after prom, giggling together and touching each other knowingly under the covers. 

"You...you remember that?" Paul asked carefully. 

Art shrugged, his shoulder moving up and down under Paul's hand. _I remember everything_ was left unspoken. It wasn't as if Paul had forgotten anything. Under the heavy weight of his first real heartbreak he had examined in his mind everything that had happened in great detail, multiple times. And maybe he thought Art had overreacted. Maybe he still did. And maybe he should have apologised anyway. Had that stupid single really been worth all this hurt? 

"How could I forget that prom?" Art spoke up, staring over Paul's head at the opposite wall of the room. "I was so mad at you. That was the worst prom I ever had." If it sounded accusing, that's because it was. Art still blamed Paul. 

"It was mine, too."

Art's grip tightened, his touch no longer reluctant. Except now Paul figured Art probably wasn't aware that he was almost crushing Paul now, trembling with ongoing fury about these recollections.

"Fuck, I'm still angry."

"I know."

"At you," Art added, redundantly. 

"I _know._ " Paul repeated quietly, trying to soothe some of Art’s most pressing irritation.

Art released some of the tension in his limbs, and Paul could breathe again. 

Somewhere deep down, Paul wanted to defend himself and the choices he made as a teen, wanted to tell Art to get over it already since it had been years and they were supposed to be adults now. But he knew that that would have the opposite effect, and the old argument would be rehashed and reheated. If Paul had _any_ hope of ever getting back in Art's good graces, he would have to swallow most of his pride and give Art what he wanted. 

"Artie, I'm sorry. For... _that._ "

Art completely stilled, while Paul felt relief wash over him. It felt good to say it, even though some part of him...Paul shook his head imperceptibly. He would _not_ go down that road. He wouldn’t take back the apology. It felt long overdue, and Art had probably needed Paul to say the words. 

Except Paul felt Art pulling back, moving backwards, and away from their shared half-embrace on the dance floor, which made Paul hold on even tighter, as if Art would disappear from his life forever if he didn’t keep him close to him, if he didn’t keep touching Art, binding their bodies together with this voiced string of atonement. 

“Hmpff,” Art grunted, still trying to pry himself from Paul’s iron grip. “You’re about four years too late with that.” 

Paul threw his head back, sighing, making a very big effort not to roll his eyes. 

“Artie...take it, for god sake. I’m not going to say it again.” 

“I’m surprised you managed to say it at all.”

Paul balked this time, pursing his lips, ready to give Art an earful, and he opened his mouth when he noticed one corner of Art’s mouth curling upwards, Art’s eyes slightly squinted. Paul thought he could detect the tiniest sliver of mirth in there, or at least he hoped, so he shut his mouth again and huffed out a breath through his nose, exasperated and relieved at the same time. 

Art at least wasn’t fighting anymore to scramble away from him, but led him back into the rhythm of the song. 

“I’ll take it,” Art said, and Paul relaxed further, even though he felt his heart beating wildly in his throat. “But don’t think for a minute I’m forgiving you.”

“Okay.”

“Because I’m not.”

“Okay.”

“I’m still angry at you.”

“Okay?”

Art was looking at him closely. Most of the obvious animosity from earlier that evening seemed to have dissipated, and Paul started to feel quietly confident that if he smiled at his partner, he’d receive a grin in return. Like old times. Still, he only figured his chances of this reciprocity at 65%, and he didn’t like the odds. There was still tension floating in the air, and it could explode without warning. So Paul kept atypically still, and let Art still do the leading, moving with him, mostly in sync, but still wary of anything that could break this temporary truce. 

“You wouldn’t have dared to ask me to dance at senior prom,” Art stated, his mouth suddenly closer to Paul’s ear than Paul had expected it to be. “In front of all our classmates.” It sounded like a challenge, though it was years past its execution window.

Now that Art couldn’t see his face, Paul dared to finally grin to himself. 

“Maybe not.”

Art seemed satisfied and smug, hummed as if to say ‘see, told you so.’

“Then again,” Paul continued, one of his fingers rubbing a small circle on Art’s back, almost undetectably, “there were a lot of things I would have done for you had you asked me to. Maybe this was one of those things you could have asked of me and I would have gladly done it. But you didn’t. Ask me to. Back then.”

Art didn’t say anything, and Paul held his breath a little, letting the words dangle between them. He wondered if Art even knew how deeply he had cared for him, how devastating it had been to see it all go down the drain, even though Paul had been responsible for it. According to Art, anyway. 

Art's head was now half perched on top of Paul's shoulder as he steered Paul slowly in the direction he wanted Paul in, their chests touching. Paul was absolutely sure Art must have felt how Paul's heart fluttered and danced in his ribcage. Paul took a deep breath in, and having Art so close to him again after all this time, breathing in Art's familiar smell, made his head spin. His eyes slipped closed of their own accord. 

He couldn't help the next words from spilling out of his mouth, the sound waves of his voice already deeply and irrevocably nestled into Art's eardrums before Paul consciously became aware of speaking out loud. 

"God, I've missed you." 

A desperate plea for understanding, for salvation, for Art to tell him, "me too."

But Art didn't say anything, and, in rapid succession, stepped away from Paul, grabbed his hand and spinned him, before pulling him closer again and dipping Paul, one of his hands splayed widely across Paul's back and his face hovering a few inches above Paul’s. 

It all happened so fast that all Paul could do was blink up at Art in confusion. 

"What's the matter, Paul? Thought I'd drop you?" Art said, his expression a mix between seriousness and a wry grin. _Like you dropped me._ "Don't you trust me?"

_Trust._ That's what it all came down to, wasn't it? Still, as Art pulled him upright again, Paul kept silent, unsure of how to respond. Paul couldn't decide whether Art was joking with him or ridiculing him, and if Paul would speak, he'd find out which of the two it was. He wasn't sure he wanted to know, especially because he hadn’t been able to correctly interpret the flicker in Art’s eyes, and it left him more vulnerable than he cared to admit. He could easily imagine Art dropping him to the floor after all, and the fact that this was a real possibility now was just plain sad, when, as kids, they would have laid down their lives for each other. 

Art let go of him, and turned away to look for his jacket. 

_Too fast_ , Paul thought, disheartened. He'd disturbed the very subtle equilibrium they had reached after his apology by admitting he missed Art. That had been too soon. He had shown weakness without the absolute certainty that Art still felt the same, and now Art had all the power over him. Art knew it and Paul knew that Art did. If he wanted to, Art could exploit this newfound control, make Paul suffer. He was in a very vulnerable position, and Paul hated it with every fibre of his being. How did he let this happen? 

"You're going to miss your last train," Art said, no trace of awareness about Paul’s internal struggle apparent. Just making an innocent observation. 

“I...yeah,” Paul muttered, looking everywhere but at Art, finally ordering his own feet to move. He shut off the sound system, the music they had danced to only moments before replaced by deathly silence. The only sounds echoing in Paul’s head now were his own thoughts, tripping over each other in his mind, while he was trying to figure out what Art had meant, and how Art could keep his cool while all Paul wanted to do was scream out loud from frustration about his inability to discover Art’s exact stance on the matter. Paul knew he still had feelings for Art. But did Art return them, or had the distance they had kept in the past years eventually caused the once mutual devotion to fade for one of them?

When Paul stepped off the temporary platform that had acted as the stage for them earlier, his guitar case in hand, Art stood waiting for him, casually leaning in the door post, holding Paul’s jacket. Art thrust the item of clothing in his direction, and Paul grabbed it from the other man’s hand, taking care not to initiate eye contact. He quickly shrugged into it. 

“Thanks. I guess I’ll see you later, then,” Paul said, sparing no effort to keep the tremble out of his voice. He brushed past Art. ‘Later’ was undefined, but Paul had no idea if Art was even up to another meeting any time soon, especially now that the awkward tension from earlier that evening seemed to have returned full force. Whatever progress Paul thought he’d make by apologizing, had just been expectation gone very wrong. 

Paul started when Art’s hand shot out unexpectedly, landing on his upper arm, and keeping him from stepping out into the hallway.

“It’s late. Let me drive you home.”

Flabbergasted, Paul raised his eyes and stared at Art after all. 

“I can go home on my own, thanks,” Paul replied stubbornly. “Besides, it would be too much of a detour for you.” 

Art just had to drive his scooter uptown, past Central Park, to reach his dorm. It would be absolutely crazy to go to Queens first. 

“Don’t be so pig-headed for once,” Art shot back. “Take the offer and let me drive you.” 

“Good _bye_ , Art,” Paul said pointedly, not appreciative of the fact that Art had called him out on his tenacity. But it was just not logical to let Art drop him off in Queens when there was a subway line barely two blocks away that would take him across the East River and straight into Queens. He attempted to tear his arm away from Art’s hold. 

“You can stand here and argue to me about it, but the fact is, your train goes in about four minutes.” Art smiled at him smugly. 

“Shit!” Paul exclaimed, struggling even more for Art to release him, but finding that Art squeezed his arm even harder. 

“You’ll never make it.”

Paul realized it as well, but he wasn’t going to admit that to Art this easily. “How do you even know when the last train goes?” he asked, irritably. 

“I lived there too, remember?”

Art released Paul’s arm, knowing full well that Paul wouldn’t attempt a futile sprint to the subway station. 

“Fine,” Paul huffed. “But I stand by what I said, it’s a crazy detour. You should have let me leave when I could’ve still made the train, would’ve saved you the trouble.” But as he made the remark, Paul realized that maybe Art had done it on purpose, and it sent a small shock through his body. There was something in his chest that burned and constricted carefully, making him gawk at Art in disbelief. 

When Art delivered his next sentence, Paul thought he was dreaming. 

“Then come back to my dorm with me now and take the train tomorrow.”

Paul briefly entertained the thought of pinching himself. Had he even heard things right? Was Art really inviting him back to his dorm, to spend the night, when at the beginning of the evening Art hadn’t even been able to look Paul in the eye and talk to him, much less touch him?

What about Sandy?” Paul croaked out. Paul had met Art’s roommate before, but he didn’t like to dwell too long on Art and Sandy’s friendship, as it caused a hot flash of jealousy to course through him every time. 

“He’s in Buffalo with Sue,” Art said matter-of-factly, giving Paul a small push now, turning off the lights and locking the door. He gave the key to Paul to return to Louis. 

Paul’s feet felt like they were made out of lead. The thing in his chest grew and expanded, seemed to pulse rhythmically below his skin, sending shivers down his spine. He hoisted the straps of his guitar case over his shoulders and quietly followed Art outside, where Art’s scooter was parked against a tree a few yards away. 

“I’ve only got one helmet, so do me a favor and don’t fall off, okay?” Art said, but handed Paul a hat he’d pulled out of his jacket’s pocket. “Here, wear this or your ears will freeze off.”

If Paul gripped Art’s waist a bit tighter than necessary as they drove through Manhattan, no one had to know. 

Paul could be going crazy. Either that, or Art had just offered to help him rebuild the spider’s web they’d so carelessly destroyed. And Paul wasn’t going to turn down the offer, not when the sensation in his chest built and swelled, almost causing him to burst out laughing from the intensity of it. It was bright and all-consuming. It was hope.

  
  


Songs that play:

_Everly Brothers -[Crying In The Rain](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vzh94bzYO2M)_

_Ray Charles -[I Can’t Stop Loving You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w-YqaTDDCDM)_

_Connie Francis -[Don’t Break The Heart That Loves You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HQxdvSApcTM)_

_The Miracles -[You Really Got A Hold On Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DRd-bjFfjNc)_


End file.
